Week Eight Journal One

Week Eight Journal One

An unsuccessful painter

The basement room is cold but well lit, which gives it an eerie feeling. The far corner of the room is filled with discarded canvasses, maybe five separate stacks, each at least ten high. There is a bed in one corner, pushed all the way up to the walls on two sides, it is clearly ignored and in disarray. Old magazines and art history books are scattered about half the bed, while the other half appears to be where someone sleeps, as there is a slight indent the size and shape of a human body in it. Near the discarded canvasses is an easel, worn and battered, dried paint drips cover the legs near the bottom, and various splatters of paint litter the carpet below. There is nothing on the walls, except for a few small paint splatters, complementing one larger one, apparently placed there out of anger and frustration. The room has a very minimal feel, as though the person who typically occupies it only cares about one thing. There aren’t too many clothes, only a few plain colored t-shirts, and some multi colored jeans, made so by the paints that they are around. When paint and clothes are constantly in the same room, there is no way to keep your clothes clean.